The Art of Flow Lines
by Cadavatar
Summary: Mrs. Hudson finally managed to rent out flat 221E. Sherlock isn't too thrilled about his new neighbor. Sherlock/OC, but that comes later. Rating will probably change later.
1. I: Astute Observations

"But I need that flat open, John." Sherlock paced in the living room of 221B Baker's street while John watched, fingers poised above the keyboard as he listened, his blog forgotten for a mere moment. "Moriarty could send me another message using that flat again. Wait. No. Forget that. Too predictable, so perhaps..." Moving to the window, the tall, reedy man looked out toward the street, as if his constant surveillance would not allow the moving truck supposedly coming soon to miraculously not arrive. "Not. But nonetheless, I still do not want that flat occupied."

John gave a short laugh and turned back to his work. "Can't imagine who would want 221E anyway. You saw the state of the place." It was a basement apartment, after all. The mold and the damp would be awful for whoever moved in.

"College student. Female. In a bad situation and needs to move out of her current apartment quickly, and quietly." Turning from the window, Sherlock went to his desk and ruffled through his papers before he found a book, laying it on top of the mess. "A major in sciences, but not lab based."

Sighing, John knew he had had to ask the inevitable question. Half of him didn't want to ask, but the other half knew that if he didn't, then he'd be bothered by it later. "How do you know?"

Turning from the desk, Sherlock touched the side of his nose, once. "Bread."

"What?" John blinked, looking around as if he was expecting there to be a loaf of bread in the apartment.

A short pause passed between them and Sherlock sighed, looking toward the ceiling again. "You keep giving me this blank look of awe every time you say that, I hope maybe someday you'll eventually stop. Anderson does the same thing, or at least he does when he doesn't realize I can see him." John's face changed, morphing into a scathing glare, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop that. I'm not comparing you to him, you can actually function." Turning around, Sherlock gestured to the downstairs.

"Yesterday night when we came home and I smelled something baked. Mrs. Hudson had couldn't have baked it, as she didn't offer any to us when she heard us come in. She always attempts to share her baking. The pan was in the corridor, meaning that it had been placed there and forgotten- if it had been baked here, it would've been forgotten in the kitchen, at least." Back to the window, Sherlock looked out to the street again. "Therefore, the new tenant baked it, meaning that the tenant must be female."

John frowned. "Plenty of blokes love to bake."

Raising a finger, Sherlock tapped it against the window. "But not on an amateur level. Bread is simple to make. If you like to bake and are a man, you'd like to show off your prowess in the art, or otherwise you don't bake at all. Also, there were two teacups on the table, meaning they stayed over, but the bread wasn't eaten. Why? Because the bread wasn't made to go with tea. Impractical. Impractical gifts are cheap, especially you're trying to impress a landlady, not a boss or a family member." And once again, he was pacing. "And Mrs. Hudson remarked she chatted with the new tenant for a couple of hours. No man would stay and chat for that long with a landlady he just met."

"Alright, I get that. What about the other things?" John wondered if he should be writing it down, but then again he didn't want to include the woman on his blog without knowing her first.

"College student because it was a Thursday and she came around mid-afternoon. Too late for a lunch break, too early to be off work, so she must've had a break in classes." A few short strides of his long legs found him back as his desk, where he held up the book he dug out earlier. "She also left this, under the bread pan."

It was a book on writing composition, small, blue, with the title 'Writing Arguments' on the front. John rolled his eyes. "You nicked her book from the hallway." He shouldn't have sounded so surprised. It was Sherlock, after all.

"Of course I did. But I'll give it back, how else am I supposed to meet her? But see? Science student." He sat it down, and John almost opened his mouth to tell him it was an English book, but he knew Sherlock wasn't stupid. He sat there for a moment, waiting for him to explain. Eventually Sherlock looked over, saw the blank stare on his face, and groaned. "Look at it, John." He held it out to him, and despite the somewhat criminal and very much privacy violating implications running through his head, John took it anyway. "The spine is barely cracked, so she can't be an English major. If she was she never would have left it. And she left the bread on top of it, like she was used to leaving things on it. Hold the cover under the light."

John did, and noticed the writing etched on the cover. "She uses it as a hard surface for writing notes on." He muttered, trying to make it out. Sherlock took it from him before he could even bother.

"From what I could make out, I found parts of the words 'findings', 'water table', and 'deposits'. I'd assume ecology." The book was tossed onto the couch without a care, and Sherlock went back to the window. "And bad living situation because she's moving in today after only meeting Mrs. Hudson a couple days ago. Desperate. The truck's here."

With that note, the conversation was over as John looked out the window, watching as the moving truck's driver got out and circled to the back. He hoisted the truck's back door up, and John swore he heard Sherlock mumble 'Bad back, lifts with his knees.' The passenger side door opened, but Sherlock turned from the window as his phone rang. He dug in his pocket for it, and John turned from the window too.

"Lestrade needs me for a case. Typical. Coming, John?" With that, he was shrugging on his coat and scarf.

"What about the book?" John asked, shutting his laptop without having written anything down. He grabbed his own coat and they both headed out the front, missing the girl and the moving truck man as they unloaded furniture out.

"Probably not the best time. Later." With that, the two departed down the street, Sherlock waving down a taxi as they went.


	2. II: A Man's Coatroom

Getting out of the cab, John watched as Sherlock gave the place a look over as Lestrade appeared at the doorway, pausing at the top of the stairs before coming down them and crossing the street to lift the police tape for the pair. As they stepped through, he briefed them. "Joe Bloggs. Called 999, but when he connected all they got was silence. Had to track the phone down through GPS services, by the time we got here he was already dead. No identification on him."

Sherlock frowned and surveyed the place as they entered the front door, passed through the entryway and into the living room, where the body was slumped in an armchair. The entire room was white- the walls, the furniture, even the floorboards. There were splashes of color around, subtle bits in the decorations on the walls and the objects that couldn't be found in white. The man was placed in the only armchair in the room, and he looked almost as if he was sleeping. Sherlock glanced him over once before turning to the nearest surface, running his finger along it. He pulled out his phone and moved his thumb along it for a moment before speaking. "Have you gotten in contact with the house owner yet?"

"What? No. Wait, you mean this isn't his house?" Lestrade gestured to the man while John looked him over, checking to see how long he had been deceased. Around his feet were the shattered remains of a drinking glass. Sherlock closed his phone and put it in his pocket.

"No. The owner is on a business trip, but probably still in the country. Left this morning for Brighton." He pointed back at the door. "Closet door is open there, he probably left in a hurry. There's a space inside on the top shelf where he keeps his suitcase, looks like it's barely big enough for an overnight bag."

Shutting the closet door, Sherlock continued. "The umbrella is missing from the umbrella rack by the door, and it was raining this morning. He wouldn't have brought it with him if he was just going to get a taxi, and he wouldn't have walked his suitcase to where he was going- much too clean for that, could possibly splash him, but they're calling for rain in Brighton today as well. Check the coat pockets in the closet, I'm sure there's a train ticket stub." Going over to the body, Sherlock lifted the man's foot and looked at the bottom. "The shoes in the closet are big, look to be about a thirteen. This man's shoes are a size ten and a half." Dusting his hands over the man's pant legs, Sherlock held his fingers to his face. "He also owns a cat. Look at this apartment. There's no animal hair anywhere. No dust either. Couldn't possibly be the owner. Why am I here?"

A moment passed before Lestrade spoke again, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. "No signs of forced entry, here or upstairs. No open windows. No signs of a struggle. It's like he just walked in, sat down, and died."

"No..." Sherlock muttered, examining the body. "He walked in, sat down, _had a drink_ and died. What was in that glass?"

"Forensics is taking some samples back to the lab for analysis. You're welcome to take a look yourself, of course. Anderson left just before you showed up." Jerking his thumb to the door, Lestrade looked over his shoulder to the street. "Have some extra kits in the car, I'll grab you one."

As he turned and left, John stood up from his kneeling position beside the body and turned to his friend. "Sherlock. This man's been dead for five or six hours."

"Couldn't have called the police, he was already dead." The taller of the two muttered. He crossed his arms and stared into the middle distance, a new piece to the puzzle added in his brain. "So the killer called, from this location. Why wait so long? They'd stay here so the call wouldn't trace back to them, but then they'd have to leave quickly, quietly, without anyone seeing." He paused. "Or without anyone thinking anything was amiss."

With that, Sherlock walked out just as Lestrade came in with the kit. "John, bag up the bigger pieces of the glass. I'll meet you at the lab."

The two men blinked after him and Lestrade sighed. "I don't even ask anymore."

"Neither do I." John muttered, watching as Sherlock took down the nearest alley- probably to find a member of his homeless network to interrogate, or have them watch the house.

If not that, well- it wouldn't be too surprising.


	3. III: Geology

John had to take a cab home by himself, of course. By that point he was used to it; that was why he had started to make Sherlock pay for the cab on the way there, when he had the cash, so he could afford to make the ride home alone. It always seemed like he was doing it that way. One day he'd put his foot down and tell Sherlock they were both riding in the same cab home. Not that it mattered, of course. It didn't. Sometimes John just worried he was going to disappear on him again. Despite Sherlock's thinking that Moriarty had also faked his death, they hadn't seen him in so long that it seemed like he was also gone for good. But his friend was always a step ahead of everyone else in the game, so if he thought Moriarty was faking it, they'd be careful and assume he was until it was absolutely one hundred percent proven.

When he arrived at 221B Baker's street, he noted as he got out that the moving truck was already gone. Either they had been out for longer than he thought, or the woman had gotten her things inside without too much of a hassle. As far as he could recall it wouldn't be too much of a struggle, he moved all his things in easily enough, and he had the upstairs rooms. He contemplated going down to greet her as he let himself in, but there was no need, because he found Mrs. Hudson chatting amicably with said girl in the main hallway.

"I'd clean it up a bit, but you see, I've got a hip..." Mrs. Hudson looked a little worried, and John could see why- the girl looked pale as a sheet, and just as thin. A bit of mold could possibly knock her right over.

"No ma'm, really, it's fine." John caught she was Irish immediately from her accent- there was no hiding it. "I'm not sick from the mold. I've been ill for a bit, just stress from uni. It's all fine." Glancing over at John, she looked away before looking back, a quick double take, before smiling. "Hello! You live upstairs right? One of the two?"

Mrs. Hudson jumped right in, stepping into the gap between them as she smiled at the two. "Oh John, this is Eleanor, the girl taking the basement flat." The girl reached across to shake his hand and he obliged, both of them giving a firm shake without any second thoughts before Mrs. Hudson went on. "Eleanor, this is John Watson. Sherlock lives upstairs too. A bit strange, but you'll warm up to him... Hopefully." She added, sounding more than a little concerned. "Oh, but you were asking about those pans I was telling you about, dear. Be back in a moment." She scurried of to the kitchen, leaving the two of them standing awkwardly in the main hallway.

They stood in silence for a few moments, listening to the rustling of Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, when Eleanor finally spoke up. "It's Nell, actually. Eleanor's a bit too formal."

"Okay." He replied, nodding his head. It made sense. Of course she wouldn't try to correct Mrs. Hudson; that would be rude. But he'd call her Nell, if she wanted.

"So." She muttered, clipped short rather than drawn out. "You and your, ah, mate? Upstairs then?" She looked up the staircase like it was the gateway to a fantasy world, and John wondered if she meant 'mate' as in friend or 'mate' as in, well, mate.

"My friend. Yes. We split rent. Two bedrooms." He clarified, and she nodded, as if she meant it all along. Well, at least one person in the world didn't automatically assume he was homosexual from the first meeting. At least, not outright.

"I only have one, but it's a bit big. Might see if I can scratch up a flat mate." She coughed into her elbow, turning away, and John took note of it, his medic instincts kicking in. It was a wet cough, like she was getting over something. "But I promise I won't be any trouble. You'll hardly see me at all. Not going to be a party student."

"Ah, well, that's, um." John almost wanted to let her know that, if anything, they'd be the ones that would be trouble, with the running around and shooting walls and the violin playing at all hours. Not to mention Sherlock had nicked her English book. But as he was getting ready to warn her, Mrs. Hudson showed up with a large, slightly banged up pan.

"Will this do, dear? There's a few more in the kitchen, if you like it. Just for now, until you get your own..." The two women departed, the younger giving him a halfhearted wave and a small 'nice to meet you' before being ushered off. John stood there for a moment, alone and awkward, before nodding to himself and heading up the stairs to brew some tea and write on his blog for a few hours, or until whenever Sherlock got back.

That time came a couple hours later, when Sherlock appeared at the door without a word. John looked up from his typing as the taller man took off his coat and scarf, throwing them onto the couch as he smoothed out his suit jacket. "You met the new girl." Sherlock stated- it wasn't a question, it was never a question- and all John did was nod and not bother asking how he knew. He had come to find that asking Sherlock the answer to everything was annoying to him, so when it wasn't a big deal he didn't bother. "Good, good. I suppose I can take that book down to her, before you do it yourself."

"She's a bit sick." John warned him, but Sherlock picked up the book and headed back out the door anyway. John sighed and leaned back in his chair, finishing with his blog post while he waited for any sign of Sherlock getting in trouble, which he was bound to do. He heard him go down the stairs, and the muttering of voices wafted up from the bottom floor. Then he heard a laugh from the girl and he stopped his typing, listening as the door closed and Sherlock's footsteps started again, and he appeared in the kitchen as if nothing was amiss, sitting down at the table to conduct his experiments. John waited a moment, but Sherlock said nothing. "So?"

A full minute passed, and it seemed as if Sherlock didn't hear him, but suddenly his hands hit the table with a loud slap and he looked to the ceiling. "Geology!" He groaned, standing up as he ran his hands through his hair. "A geology student, not ecology. There's always something." He reminded him, and he all but fell onto the couch. "Everything else was right. She'll have a flat mate in less than a month though. Needs someone to share her baggage with."

"Baggage?" John asked, before realizing Sherlock was referring to emotional baggage, not literal bags. But it was too late, because Sherlock was already starting up, and there was no stopping him.

"She comes from a big family. I saw a box sitting on the sofa that had the word 'frames' scrawled on it, and she's the type to keep pictures, seeing how she's already tossed a large amount of magnets onto her refrigerator to hang them up with. Not to mention the wardrobe she's wearing comes in various styles and isn't worn in the same spots consistently. Her jacket is worn in the elbows, but her shirt isn't, it's worn in the cuffs."

"She's used to being in a crowd of people; you can tell by the way she stands. Has two older brothers, both of whom love to mess up her hair, as she keeps it in a style that's hard to muss from both sides, not just one. If it were a cousin or a parent, they would've stopped from all her complaining about it, but brothers aren't so easy to dissuade. Speaking of that, I expect Mycroft will be around to see her next time she goes out. She'll take it about as well as you, maybe even better. She's used to conflict." He paused in his deduction and steepled his fingers in thought. "I wonder..."

"If she'll take the money?" John asked, but Sherlock snorted at the mere suggestion.

"Of course she will. 'Spy on your neighbors and I'll pay your rent', oh please. I still can't believe you didn't. I wonder if she'll be against splitting it."


End file.
